


These days of quiet desperation

by JHSC



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Although I deliberately stole Melinda May, Angst, Family Dynamics, Hospitalization, M/M, Medical Trauma, Near Death Experiences, Not Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Compliant, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Wouldn't you?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 06:32:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4294377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JHSC/pseuds/JHSC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint squeezes his hand tightly and stares at him intently. For the first time since he got out of surgery, he looks scared. “Phil. It’s gonna get worse before it gets better. You gonna be okay?”</p><p>Phil wants to look away, wants to let go of Clint’s hand and run out the door and out of the hospital and away, and he can’t tear his eyes from Clint’s face. “I’ll be okay once you’re okay.”</p><p>Clint’s lips twist, and he leans back on the pillow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These days of quiet desperation

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Billy Joel’s “[Everybody Has a Dream](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S129T9kav8I).”
> 
> Extensive thanks go to my awesome betas, [Ralkana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana) and [Lellabeth](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lellabeth/pseuds/lellabeth). All errors are my own, and yes, I did do the thing where I went back and made changes after they finished reading. 
> 
> There are no graphic descriptions in this fic, but since medical stuff does, in fact, happen, please visit the end notes for specific warnings.

**Tuesday 3:14 p.m.**

Clint is sparring with Natasha in the middle of the gym floor, and Phil is off to the side, doing shoulder-presses as he watches them dance. Because it is a dance – twisting, turning steps and kicks and dips – just with slightly more bruising at the end of the day.

Phil is watching when Natasha slips a roundhouse kick through Clint’s defenses and drives her toes straight into his abdomen. It’s supposed to knock the wind out of him, make him stumble. Instead, it makes him scream.

Phil’s dumbbells go crashing to the weight bench, and he’s sprinting over to the mats by the time Clint’s knees hit the floor, and he’s skidding to a stop as Clint curls up into a ball, tears leaking out of his eyes and onto the mat.

He’s still screaming.

 

**Tuesday 3:17 p.m.**

By the time the medics arrive three and a half minutes later, Clint has vomited twice and gone stark white, and his screams have turned into high-pitched whimpers. He’s holding tight to Phil’s hand and Phil, for his part, can do nothing except sit there with Clint’s head in his lap as tears and snot seep into his gym shorts. Natasha uses a workout towel to, if not clean up the mess, at least sweep it far enough away that Clint isn’t at risk of rolling into it.

The two medics, a pair of women in their twenties, take over. They make Phil let go of Clint’s hand so that they can work, and he does so dutifully, because he knows they know what they’re doing.

While Jennifer works on getting Clint’s vitals, Aisha asks, “What happened?”

Phil glances at Natasha, and offers, “They were sparring, and he took a blow to the stomach.”

“I kicked him,” Natasha offers. “I hit him with the point of my toe on the left side of his lower abdomen.”

Aisha nods and shifts her attention and questions directly to Clint, managing to get just a few answers from him.

“Ten,” he says.

“Sharp,” he says.

“Here,” he says. He uncurls enough to point at a spot on his stomach about four inches up from his belly button, just off to the left side. Phil knows that spot well.

Aisha lifts the hem of Clint’s shirt and presses her hand to his skin. “Here?”

A strangled gasp is the only answer Clint gives. He begins to pant, and Phil tries to soothe him. “Breathe, Clint. It’s okay.”

“He has a scar here,” Aisha says in an undertone to Jennifer. “Looks pretty old, possibly from a knife. Bloating and tenderness. Might be a bowel issue.”

Jennifer nods. “BP, heart rate, and respiration are all high.”

“Okay,” Aisha says. “Clint, we’re going to get you up on the gurney now, all right?”

Clint’s breathing has slowed back down, and he gives her the barest of nods. The medics pull the gurney over and lower it. Phil steps up to help – Clint isn’t an especially big man, but he’s solid muscle – and by the time he opens his mouth to offer assistance, they’ve got Clint up onto the gurney and are strapping him in. “Just a short trip down the hall and down the elevator, Clint, and then you’ll be on your way,” Aisha says.

 

**Tuesday 3:25 p.m.**

Phil climbs into the back of the ambulance with Clint and rides with him to New York Presbyterian, holding his hand the entire time. Clint’s grip is like a vice.

 

**Tuesday 4:16 p.m.**

“We’re prepping him for emergency surgery,” Dr. Gupta tells Phil in the small private waiting area. Natasha is off somewhere in the ER, standing guard over Clint; as Clint’s next-of-kin, Phil has to be the one to hear this. “The x-rays indicate a ruptured bowel caused by the kick to his abdomen. What can you tell me about the cause of the scarring on his stomach?”

“Oh,” Phil says. He’s at a loss for words for a moment. He knows the story. He may be the only person who does. Except for probably Natasha, who has a way of finding things out, or Barney, who was there for some of it. “About thirty years ago, give or take, he was stabbed during an… altercation. He was treated at a local hospital and kept for several days before being released. I don’t know if he returned after that for any follow-up, but it’s safe to assume he didn’t. As far as I know, he hasn’t had any problems with it since then.”

Dr. Gupta nods. “Okay. It might be that the original knife wound hit his bowel and caused residual weakness in the bowel lining. Once we’re in, we’ll be able to determine the cause, as well as the extent of the damage.”

 

**Tuesday 6:22 p.m.**

Melinda arrives at the waiting room, bearing a sack of sliders and a six-pack of Diet Coke. Natasha trails in behind her and says, “Steve’s here,” at his inquisitive look.

“How’s he doing?” Melinda asks as she passes out miniature hamburgers and sodas.

Phil hasn’t eaten since lunch, and he knows he’s hungry, but his stomach’s in knots. He sets the slider down on a napkin on the table. Maybe he’ll eat it in a bit. “They’re still working. They said it’s going well. They had to resect part of his small intestine. Um. An end-to-end anastomosis. I don’t know how much longer it will be.”

Melinda nods, her mouth full. “These things take time,” she says after a moment. “You know that.”

“Yes, I know.”

“And you know you need to eat something at some point so you don’t pass out from hunger, right?”

He shoots her a look. Melinda stares back. Natasha’s “Phil,” from the side makes him break eye contact and turn.

“If I have to eat, you have to eat,” Natasha says, her posture stiff.

Phil sighs and picks up the slider.

 

**Tuesday 8:38 p.m.**

“He came through the surgery as well as can be expected,” Dr. Gupta says upon her return to the waiting room. Phil sets down the magazine he hadn’t been reading and Natasha puts her phone aside. They’re the only two present; Melinda stepped out an hour ago to make some calls, and Steve is still making the rounds of the hallways, eyes alert.

“We were correct that the rupture, while caused by the blow to the abdomen, was ultimately caused by the original injury he sustained thirty years ago. An adhesion formed on the inside of the bowel, which is common for healing bowel injuries, but it weakened the area enough that the right hit to the right spot was all it took to make it rupture.”

Dr. Gupta pauses, and Phil can see her sizing up Natasha’s face and body language. “What that means is, if he hadn’t been stabbed thirty years ago, your kick would have knocked his breath out of him, and nothing more.”

“What’s the prognosis?” Phil asks after a pause.

“We resected about six inches of bowel. Barring any complications, we’d like to keep him here at least five days, at which point we’ll release him to go home.”

Phil feels his shoulders tighten. Clint is looking down a long path of recovery – they’ll have to figure out later exactly how long it will be before he’s cleared for any type of field work – and that’s without any, “Complications?”

“With any kind of bowel injury, there’s a risk of infection, peritonitis,” Dr. Gupta says, her matter-of-fact tone an odd sort of balm. If she were gentle, Phil would be worried. So long as she’s brusque, he can believe that everything will be fine. “Even more so with an injury of this type. We flushed the site with antibiotics and have him on IV antibiotics as well. That should clear up any problems, but the next few hours will be critical.”

Phil nods, and she leaves.

“He’ll be fine,” Natasha says, crossing the room to sit next to him.

“You’re a terrible liar,” he responds. Then he sighs and sags forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “Sorry, sorry. I know he’ll be fine. He always comes through these things fine. He’s healthy and in good shape. Strong. So I know he’ll be fine.”

“This is the first time one of you has been injured since Loki,” Natasha says. It isn’t a question.

“Yes.”

“And the circumstances of your recovery were…”

“Weird?” Phil asks with a wry twist to his lips.

Natasha smiles. “I was going to say triggering.”

Phil looks back down at his hands. He remembers waking up the first time, alone. He remembers being surrounded by doctors, nurses, therapists – none of whom were, in fact, real.

He remembers the first time he saw Clint, after it all came out. The way Clint had stopped and stared. He remembers the way that Clint couldn’t bear to speak to him for weeks, but couldn’t bear to let him out of his sight, either.

 _You were gone_ , was the first thing Clint said to him after he came back. _You were gone_.

It took them a long time to find their balance again. Phil still has nightmares of an island he never visited. Clint still has nightmares of a man who thought himself a god.

“Yeah,” Phil says. “A bit.”

 

**Wednesday 6:31 a.m.**

Clint groans when he wakes up.

It’s a familiar sound, one he makes any time the alarm goes off, any time he has to get out of bed before he’s absolutely ready. Clint groans, and Phil sits up from his slouch in the visitor’s chair and squeezes Clint’s hand three times in quick succession. You’re safe. I’m here.

“Where are my ears?” Clint mumbles, opening his eyes. There are dark circles under them, and his lids are covered in the purple rash that only ever appears when Clint’s been under anesthesia.

Phil takes the hearing aid case out of his pocket and removes the one for his right ear. Clint’s hands are clumsy and full of IV lines, so Phil turns it on and places it over Clint’s ear himself.

He sits back and takes Clint’s hand again. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Clint replies, his voice a little more clear, a little less groggy. “The hell happened?”

“Natasha gained a new superpower. A kick that can rupture a weakened bowel.”

Clint chuckles lightly. “Only a weakened bowel? Not a regular one?”

“We haven’t tested her against a regular one. We fear her power.” He sees Clint shift and wince, and he explains more seriously, “You’ve been in surgery for a couple hours. They fixed it. You’re going to be stuck here for a few days, but you’re going to be fine.”

“Awesome,” Clint says. “Hospital means more Jell-o.”

“You’re a strange person.”

Clint grins.

 

**Wednesday 7:55 a.m.**

Clint wakes up again, and they go through the same process: three squeezes, and then the aid over the right ear.

“Water?” Clint rasps.

“Sure,” Phil replies, and holds the cup so that Clint can drink a few sips from the straw. “How are you feeling?”

“Gonna kick Tasha’s ass for this,” Clint mumbles.

“Not her fault,” Phil says gently.

The corner of Clint’s mouth quirks up. “I know. Can’t miss out on the opportunity, though.”

 

**Wednesday 11:33 a.m.**

Dr. Gupta has transferred Clint’s care to Dr. Sanchez for the long haul, and the latter steps into Clint’s room at half-past eleven. The nursing staff have been checking Clint’s vitals regularly, and the machines behind him have his heart rate and respiratory rate on full display.

“Hey Phil,” he says, easygoing and friendly. Dr. Sanchez wheels his stool in from the corner and sits in front of Phil’s chair. Phil swallows.

“Clint’s temperature’s been getting higher the past couple of hours,” he says. “It’s at 101.1 right now.”

Phil nods, his face tight.

“This doesn’t mean there’s reason to worry. His body’s had a tough day, after all. We’ve got him on antibiotics and fluids, and I’m adding a fever reducer to his drip. We’ll keep a good eye on the fever, but right now, he’s in no danger.”

 

**Wednesday 12:06 p.m.**

“Phil?” Clint asks.

Phil shoots up from the chair, takes Clint’s hand and squeezes it. Clint’s eyes are bleary; with pain or fever, Phil doesn’t know. He brushes his hand across Clint’s forehead, which is hot and damp with sweat, and puts the hearing aid in. “Hey. Hey, how are you feeling?”

“Peachy,” Clint responds. “What’s happening?”

“You’ve got a bit of a fever,” Phil replies, ignoring the digital display showing 102.3. “You’re going to feel better really soon, though, I promise.”

Even with the haze of the fever, Clint manages a glare. “Busted bowel, then fever?” he asks. “Not good, Phil.”

“Leave me to my denial, please.”

“Phil.” Clint states. “What’s my temp?”

“You’re just over one-oh-one.”

“Liaaaar,” Clint singsongs. “Feels like two and a half.”

“It’s 102.3, actually.”

“Told you,” he sings again. “Antibiotics on full?”

“Yes. Antibiotic flush and drip. And morphine, and baby Tylenol. If you take all of it, you get a lollipop.”

Clint lets out a weak chuckle. “I sure as hell can take all of it.”

Phil laughs along with him, because Clint is awake and smiling, and everything’s going to be fine.

“It’s gonna get worse,” Clint says after a moment. “You know that, right?”

“No, it’s not. The antibiotics—”

Clint squeezes his hand tightly and stares at him intently. For the first time since he got out of surgery, he looks scared. “Phil. It’s gonna get worse before it gets better. You gonna be okay?”

Phil wants to look away, wants to let go of Clint’s hand and run out the door and out of the hospital and away, and he can’t tear his eyes from Clint’s face. “I’ll be okay once you’re okay.”

Clint’s lips twist, and he leans back on the pillow.

 

**Wednesday 3:43 p.m.**

Clint’s temperature hits 103.7. Dr. Sanchez has been back twice: once to check the dressing on Clint’s stitches, and once just to check him over. Nurses have been coming in and out at greater frequency. Natasha came by and then immediately left, claiming she didn’t want to be in the way.

Steve offers to sit with Clint for a few minutes while Phil stretches his legs and uses the facilities down the hall. When he comes back with coffee fifteen minutes later, it’s to see Steve holding Clint’s hand and standing over him.

“What’s going on?”

“He woke up and called for you. I squeezed three times and put his hearing aid in, but he’s still agitated,” Steve says. “Fever’s high enough he might be delirious.”

Whether it’s the sound of their voices or the movement in his field of vision, the short exchange is enough to make Clint fuss even more.

“Phil? Where’s Phil?”

Phil immediately switches spots with Steve, checks that the hearing aid is turned on and properly placed - it is - and says, “Clint. Clint, I’m here. It’s all right. I’m here.”

“Phil!”

He squeezes three times. “It’s all right. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe. You have a fever. You’re safe. I’m right here.”

Steve steps up to the other side of the bed to hold Clint’s other hand. Phil isn’t sure how well that will—Clint rips his hand out of Steve’s grasp and reaches out in front of his face, like he’s trying to grab ahold of what’s in front of him. “Phil!”

“I’m here, I’m here.”

“No, he’s not. He’s not, he’s gone, Phil’s gone.”

Phil feels his heart stop. _You were gone_. He clutches Clint’s hand to his chest and repeats, “I’m here, I’m safe. Clint, I swear, I’m here with you now, I’m here.”

 

**Wednesday 6:29 p.m.**

Dr. Sanchez says putting Clint back under sedation would repress his breathing too much. They’re already piping him extra oxygen through a nasal cannula. Every time he wakes up, he calls for Phil. Sometimes he recognizes him. Sometimes he doesn’t. Phil squeezes his hand and reassures him every time, until he falls back asleep.

 

**Wednesday 9:06 p.m.**

Around when Clint’s fever hits 104, he calls out for his mother.

When he’s sure Clint is asleep again, Phil transfers Clint’s hand to Melinda, who had arrived in the night with more takeout and more coffee. He goes back to the vacant waiting room, sits down against the wall in the corner partially hidden by the couch, and sobs into his arms.

 

**Wednesday 10:56 p.m.**

When Clint’s fever reaches 105, Dr. Sanchez puts him on a ventilator and starts dispensing antibiotics, antipyretics, and blood pressure stabilizers through a CVC line in his chest. As the nurses start coming in with cold packs, Dr. Sanchez pulls Phil into the private waiting room and sits him down.

“Is it sepsis?” Phil asks as soon as the door is closed. He knows what it is, but he needs to hear it.

“Yes,” the doctor replies.

Phil nods. He feels like… nothing. “So, what now?”

“The vent and the new meds will help stabilize his breathing and blood pressure. We’ve got preliminary cultures back, so I’ve switched him to a more specialized antibiotic, which I’m putting straight into the CVC line to help it work faster. The cold packs might seem a little stone-age, but they’ll help bring down his fever in the interim.”

“Phil,” Dr. Sanchez interrupts himself; he must catch something in Phil’s face. “We caught this very early, and we’ve been proactive this whole time. He’s got a very good chance.”

Phil nods. “I’m sure he does.”

 

**Thursday 6:50 a.m.**

Phil jerks awake with Clint’s name on his lips, and finds himself rolling off the waiting room sofa and jumping to his feet before he’s fully awake. He spins to take in the room; Melinda appears to have just walked in a moment ago, and Natasha is curled up on the sofa. He must have been sleeping with his head in her lap. He’s not sure how he feels about that. He’s not sure he feels anything anymore.

“I brought coffee and bagels,” Melinda says, holding up the paper bag and the coffee cup tray. There are four coffees. Steve must still be around, then.

“Is he dead?” Phil asks the room. “Is he dead yet?”

“Phil!” Melinda says sharply, setting the breakfast down on the coffee table. “Of course he’s not dead, don’t be an idiot.”

“He’s not dead yet, but he’s going to be. Why are you in denial about this? Do you know what the mortality rate is for sepsis? Do you know the damage… the damage a high fever alone does to the brain? The kidneys? The heart?”

He rubs his chest with his right hand. “Do you know what it does to the heart?”

“Phil,” Melinda repeats, gently. “Come on, sit down and eat—“

“I don’t want to fucking eat!” he shouts. “I don’t want—“

He grabs the bag of bagels off of the table and chucks it as hard as he can against the wall. It rips open, and half a dozen bagels and a tub of cream cheese go flying.

“—your fucking—“

He picks up the coffee tray and sends the whole thing flying against the wall – the cups practically explode, shooting hot coffee across half the room, dripping from the ceiling and pooling on the floor.

“—breakfast!”

As suddenly as the rage came, it leaves again just as quickly. His shoulders slump, and he turns away from the mess. Somewhere in his rant, Melinda must have walked out. Only Natasha is there, still seated comfortably on the couch, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m sorry,” he tells her. “I’m just… it’s just…”

“I know,” Natasha says.

“Do you?” he snaps. “Do you really? Do you know? He thought I was dead. He was reaching for me, calling out for me, and kept saying that I was gone. I’m still… he’s still…”

He leans against the wall across from the couch. Natasha stares at him intently, and he continues, “I know all the scars on his body. I know where all of them are from, even the one on his stomach that caused this whole mess. But I didn’t know about this scar. The one that makes him dream that I’m gone.”

“It’s his greatest fear,” Natasha says. “Waking up and finding out you’re really dead.”

“I didn’t know,” Phil says. He wipes his hand across one eye, then the other. “For some stupid reason, I didn’t know. And now, he thinks I’m dead again, and he’s going to -- he’s going to die thinking that it’s true.”

 

**Thursday 7:38 a.m.**

“May’s not mad at you,” Steve says as he enters the waiting room. Phil has done his best to clean up the mess with paper towels from the bathroom, but it still smells strongly of spilled coffee. “She does say that you owe her $24.37 for breakfast.”

“Okay,” Phil says.

“How’s Clint?”

Phil shrugs.

“No news?”

Phil shrugs again.

“You want me to walk you back to his room?”

Phil starts to shrug, then stops. He doesn’t want to look at Clint the way he is now, the way he looked when Dr. Sanchez drew Phil away last night – still and silent and pale. He wants the Clint from Tuesday morning, who woke up with a groan to shut off his alarm, whose hair was a complete disaster, who rolled over to nuzzle into Phil’s neck and murmur, “You smell good. Don’t ever shower, ever ever. So good.”

Phil had poked him in the ribs until he finally gave in and got up. They’d showered separately – to do otherwise was far too tempting – and rushed off to various meetings and appointments. Phil couldn’t even remember, now, where he went that morning, what made it so important that he had to get out of bed for it.

All he can think about is how badly he doesn’t want to go into that room.

“C’mon,” Steve says. “I’ll walk you.”

 

**Thursday 7:43 a.m.**

“There you are,” says one of the nurses when they get into Clint’s room. “I’ll go let the doctor know you’re back. He’ll want to speak to you.”

“I’ll be right outside the door,” Steve says. “Take your time.”

Phil nods, and walks up to the side of the bed. He ignores the monitors, the ventilator and the wires, and takes Clint’s hand. His skin is dry.

Clint’s eyelids flutter, and then open. His gaze is still unfocused, feverish, and Phil isn’t sure what he’s seeing.

“Hey,” Phil says, squeezing Clint’s hand three times. “I’m here.”

He sits down in Clint’s line of sight, and stays there.

 

**Thursday 9:34 a.m.**

“Hey,” Natasha says, hovering in the open doorway. She’s obviously showered and changed since the last time Phil saw her. Whether she slept or not is anyone’s guess.

“Hey,” Phil says back.

Natasha seems to take the quiet greeting as permission to enter. She stares at Clint like she wants to memorize every inch of him, in case she needs the image to look back on later. Phil understands how she feels. He hasn’t let go of Clint’s hand since he sat down.

Natasha circles the bed and then comes to a stop next to Phil, close enough for him to lean his head against her hip. He does. Her hand comes up to brush through his hair and scratch his neck, and he feels some of the tension in his shoulders ease. “Missed you, yesterday,” he says, softly.

“I needed to make sure the hospital was secure.”

He turns his head to press his face into her belly. It’s tender and intimate, and he’s been yearning for comfort like this since the moment Clint went down. Natasha’s hand moves to cup the back of his head, holding him to her. Phil takes a deep breath, and lets it out.

“I hate this,” he says. Her t-shirt is in his mouth. He doesn’t care. He chuckles, “I really, really hate this.”

“Me, too,” is all she says.

“It’s like, I want it to be over. I mean, I really, really don’t want it, want him to… But if it’s going to happen, I wish it would just…” His breath hitches. “It’s horrible, I know, but I can’t…”

He lapses into silence, and her hand goes back to carding through his hair. When he pulls away a few minutes later, there are damp spots on Natasha’s shirt. She doesn’t seem to notice.

 

**Thursday 12:13 p.m.**

“I’m here,” Melinda says. “But so is the press.”

Phil jerks awake from where he’d been dozing in his chair. He glances at Clint’s face – still asleep – and pulls his hand away to shake out the pins and needles. “Why is the press here?” he asks.

She’s leaning in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, a paper bag dangling from one hand. “An Avenger has been hospitalized, Phil. I’m shocked we’ve been able to keep it quiet this long.”

“Natasha is very good at her job,” he replies, rubbing his hand across his face. He needs to shave. Possibly shower. He doesn’t want to move. What if it happens while he’s gone?

(What if it happens while he’s here?)

“Yes, well, Hill and the medical staff are actually going to go speak with those people.” She steps inside and hands him the bag. It’s warm and smells of donuts. “You’re safe in here; they aren’t letting anybody in, but Hill wants to know if you want to draft a statement.”

“A statement?” he asks.

Her look softens a bit, and she explains, “If you don’t want to speak to the press, you can draft a statement from the family that Hill can read for you.”

“A statement,” he repeats, bristling. “You mean an obituary.”

“Phil, he’s not going to die,” she says, tone hardening. “His fever’s down and his blood pressure is up. These are all good things. You can stop freaking out any time now.”

“Melinda—“

She stares him down. “Phil.”

He glares at her, and then deflates. He takes a bite of donut and looks away.

 

**Thursday 2:00 p.m.**

Melinda has the television in the corner turned on, and she is staring intently as Maria addresses the crowd of reporters outside the hospital’s front doors. Phil zones in and out; Clint’s fever has dropped to 103.8, and Phil is resting his head on their clasped hands.

“What happens if Agent Barton dies? Will his family pursue legal action?”

Phil lifts his head to look at the television. He sees Maria, onscreen, blink in confusion and ask, “Legal action against whom, precisely?”

“The person who stabbed him in 1987,” the reporter explains intently. “If that injury is ruled the cause of death, then the person who caused the injury could be charged with his murder.”

“Huh,” Maria says. Then she rallies. “I cannot speak for Agent Barton’s family, nor for the NYPD and their procedures.”

“Do you know the identity of his attacker? Does Agent Barton?”

“Agent Barton has not been in any condition to answer questions about events that took place thirty years ago. Next question.”

Phil puts his head back down, face turned away from the screen, and nods off.

 

**Thursday 2:32 p.m.**

Phil answers his phone on autopilot and is shocked into wakefulness by, “When the fuck were you planning on telling me Clint is in the hospital, you asshole?”

“Barney. I didn’t know you—“

Barney does not seem to have noticed Phil speaking. “I had to hear about it on the fucking news! There I am, sitting on the couch with my Cheerios and my god damned Pomeranian, and the number one story on every news station in the country is Hawkeye’s medical emergency! What the fuck, Phil?”

Phil puts his head back down to rest at Clint’s hip, phone pressed under his cheek. “I was going to call you as soon as I knew—”

“As soon as you knew anything? You knew he was in the hospital, Phil! You knew something was wrong! That’s enough for a phone call!”

A horn honks in the background of the call, and Phil figures Barney must be driving. He closes his eyes and sighs. “Listen, Barney, a lot has been happening very fast, and—”

“No, you listen! I am the first person you call! Something happens to him, I am your first phone call!”

“Why should I call when you never pick up?” Phil snaps. “You can’t ignore him all the time and then turn around and demand all his attention the minute you decide you want it.”

There’s silence on the other line for a moment, then, “Oh, fuck this shit. I’ll be there in two hours. Make sure your fucking police line lets me in.”

There’s no slam of the receiver to indicate that Barney has hung up – just empty air.

 

**Thursday 4:46 p.m.**

Everyone else has hesitated at or just inside the doorway to Clint’s hospital room. Not Barney. No, not Barney. He storms in like a man on a mission, and Phil stands from his chair to face him, only to be pulled into a tight hug.

“I fucking hate you, man,” Barney mutters. “Fucking hell.”

He turns to inspect Clint intently, leaning over him to investigate the CVC line, the ventilator, the IV. He seems to lose a few moments staring at the heart monitor, pressing his fingers against the screen as it slowly blinks in time with Clint’s heart - still beating. Finally, he shrugs his shoulders, seeming to come back to himself, and stalks over to the chair in the corner to flop gracelessly onto it.

“The fuck happened?”

 

**Thursday 7:58 p.m.**

“Come on,” Barney is saying through a mouthful of chicken chow mein. “I made him think I was dead like three different times, he’ll get over it, he always does.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring, and besides, you didn’t hear him--”

“Phil,” Maria interrupts from the doorway. “Stark called and got you a reservation for a guest room at the Helmsley.”

“That’s nice,” Phil says, hackles already up from being trapped in a room with a cantankerous Barney Barton.

“…and Romanov brought you a change of clothes,” she continues without a pause. “Time for a shower and a nap.”

“Where is Natasha?”

Melinda appears behind Maria and matches her stern look. “Come on, Phil. We can hold down the fort here. You’ll be right across the street, and we’ll call you if there’s any news.”

“I’m fine right—”

“Phil,” the women say in unison.

Barney stares between the three of them as tense silence descends. “This is what Clint does nowadays, he surrounds himself with terrifying women?”

Phil sighs and stands up. “Terrifying women and men who will disappoint him.”

Barney’s lips twist. “You must be a lot of fun at parties.”

“I’m a blast.”

As Phil heads to the door, Barney rises, claps him on the shoulder, and takes the seat next to Clint’s head. “I promise, if anything comes up, I’ll actually call you. Unlike some people.”

“Barney…”

“Fuck off, I had to hear about this on the news, I’ve got a right to give you a hard time about it for the next thirty years.” He leans back in the chair and pulls out his phone. A few overly cheerful musical notes indicate he’s pulled up some kind of game. “Now get lost, you stink worse than my Pomeranian on a rainy day.”

 

**Thursday 8:29 p.m.**

Phil sits down on the bed in the guest suite at Helmsley Tower. His suitcase was on the dresser when he walked in, and closer inspection revealed it to be filled with a few of his favorite, most comfortable outfits, and one of Clint’s unwashed sweatshirts. One of his nicer suits is hanging in the closet. There are snacks on the side table, sodas and a few sandwiches in the fridge. There’s also, the brochure notes, a concierge service that will bring him hot food any time of the day or night.

It’s kind, it’s thoughtful, and he feels immensely guilty for treating his friends so poorly when they have been nothing but supportive. Clint is their friend, too.

He lays back on the bed, sure that there’s no possible way he could sleep when it’s only half-past eight and Clint’s fever is holding steady at 103, and then—

 

**Friday 6:15 a.m.**

“Phil.”

“Hnng?”

“Phil.”

Someone is shaking his shoulder. Phil reaches up to bat the hand away, then wakes up and remembers and sits straight up in bed with a gasp.

“Hey!” Steve says, rocking backwards to avoid Phil’s forehead impacting with his nose.

“What happened? What happened?” Phil asks. “What--”

“Everything’s fine,” Steve replies, calm in all the ways Phil isn’t. “You weren’t answering your phone - battery must’ve run out.”

“Is Clint--?”

“Fever’s down to 102. Doctor thinks he’ll start waking up soon, thought you might want to be there when he did.”

It’s like all his strings have been cut - every muscle he’s been holding tense for three days suddenly relaxes. He flops back onto his pillow and rests his forearm across his eyes, just for a moment. “Thank god. Who’s with him now? Natasha?”

“You know her, she’s always around. Barney’s still camped out in the visitor’s chair.”

“Barney’s still here?” Phil asks, moving his arm and sitting up again.

Steve levels him an assessing look. “I’m not sure we could move him if we tried. He had a lot to say about you.”

“Pretty sure it’s because he hates my guts,” Phil says distractedly while he hunts down new pants and pulls them on, considering and then rejecting the thought of a shower. Dressing in front of Captain America. Clint will never let him hear the end of it.

It’s a good thought to have.

“Pretty sure he doesn’t actually.”

“Doesn’t what?” Phil asks, pausing as he tucks the tails of a fresh shirt into his pants.

“Hate your guts. He’s right to be angry, though. You should’ve called him.”

Phil sits again and bends to slip on his shoes - and avoid eye contact. “Please don’t try to dictate my relationship with my brother-in-law.”

“I’m just saying he has a point.”

He sighs and explains, “The thing you have to understand about Barney is… half the time, he’ll come through for you when you need him, no questions asked, and he’ll go overboard to do everything you need.”

Phil stands, grabs his coat and key card, and heads to the door. “But the other fifty percent of the time? He’s nowhere to be found.”

Steve follows him down the hall toward the elevator, much like he did yesterday morning. “So you don’t call him because you don’t know which Barney you’re going to get?”

“Precisely. And Clint knows this, but he keeps reaching out and he keeps getting disappointed. I couldn’t… I couldn’t deal with that right now.”

Steve nods. “Looks like you’ve got the good half of Barney, this time. Might as well make the most of it while it lasts.”

 

**Friday 6:24 a.m.**

Phil’s phone rings as they’re walking through the main lobby of the hospital, and he stabs at the answer button in his haste to answer. “Barney? What’s happening?”

“Where are you?” Barney asks.

Phil breaks into a jog and dodges two doctors to burst through the doors of Clint’s wing. “I’m in the hospital, I’m heading to Clint’s room, what’s happening?”

“Just hurry up and get here.”

“Barney!” Phil demands, but the call ends without a response. He swings around the next corner, Steve following, and takes the stairs two at a time to get to the second floor, ignoring the tightness in his chest and the pounding of his heart that has little to do with physical exertion.

Thirty seconds later, he’s sliding into the room, and he sees--

“Hey,” Clint says.

Clint’s skin is still pale, his eyes half-lidded but clear, his hair darkened with old sweat, three-day-old stubble on his cheeks, and he's the most beautiful-terrifying-amazing sight Phil’s ever seen. He stumbles unsteadily to Clint’s side and gently takes his hand. Clint lifts his chin in a faint demand and Phil obliges, bending down to press a light kiss to his lips.

“Missed you,” Phil says.

Clint lets out a low, “Hmmm,” and closes his eyes. In moments, he’s asleep again, and the spell is broken. Phil raises his head. The figures of Natasha and Steve are silhouetted in the doorway. Barney steps up next to him, smiling softly.

“Sorry,” Barney says gently. “I knew you were gonna freak out, but I didn’t want you to miss him.”

“I’m having a good day,” Phil replies, voice thick, “So I’m inclined to forgive you.”

Barney passes him a handful of tissues, and Phil realizes he’s crying. It feels like relief.

 

**Friday 12:24 p.m.**

“Phil?”

Phil shoots up out of his chair. “I’m here, I’m here.”

Clint smiles, faintly. “Hey, honey.”

“Hey,” Phil replies. He leans forward to kiss Clint on the temple.

“Mmm,” Clint says. “You smell good.”

Phil winces as he pulls away. “I haven’t showered in about four days.”

“Awesome,” Clint murmurs, and falls back asleep.

 

**Saturday 12:16 a.m.**

Phil is almost to the lobby when he realizes he left his jacket in Clint’s room. He sighs, turns on his heel, and heads back to the room to fetch it.

He steps quietly into the doorway, so as to not disturb Clint, and pauses. Natasha is stretched out next to Clint in the bed, her head tucked under his chin and her arm across his chest. They’re both fast asleep.

Phil backs away slowly and heads down the hall. The jacket isn’t important.

 

**Sunday 3:45 p.m.**

“Hey Barney? Can you hunt me down some green Jell-o?”

Barney glances between Clint and Phil and stands. “I been telling you for forty years, green isn’t a flavor.”

Smiling up at his brother, Clint insists, “Sure it is.”

Barney huffs and heads to the door. “If I wanted to hear someone yapping about nothing, I would have brought my Pomeranian. Oh no, don’t get up, I’ll get your damn hospital-flavored green Jell-o.”

Clint watches Barney leave, a fond smile on his face. Once the door closes, he turns to Phil and says, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Phil replies, scooting forward on his chair to lean in closer. “You feeling okay?”

“I’m about to get Jell-o, I’m great,” Clint replies. He picks up Phil’s hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the fingertips gently, making Phil’s breath catch. “You okay?”

“Am I okay?” Phil snorts to cover the lump suddenly in his throat. “You almost died.”

“Yeah. Exactly. Are you okay?”

Phil shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

Clint frowns. “‘Course it matters.”

“You almost died. Your fever got so high… you were…” He swallows and gestures to the bruised IV ports on Clint’s arms, then the bandage on his chest where they took out the CVC line. “You almost died.”

“I’ve almost died lots of times. So have you. What’s so diff--” He stops and cocks his head to the side, assessing Phil with sharp eyes. ”What’s this really about?”

Phil pulls his hand away carefully, uses it to scrub at his face and take a moment to collect his thoughts.

“Phil?”

He leans back in his chair and stares at the far corner of the ceiling as he recounts what might be the worst night of his life. “The night your fever got really high, whichever night that was. You started calling for me. But… you wouldn’t believe I was there. You thought I was dead.”

Phil squeezes his eyes shut. “I was standing right there, holding your hand and calling your name, but you couldn’t see me. You were so… so sure that I was dead. For real. For good.”

A hand lightly brushes his cheek, and he opens his eyes to see Clint leaning over the side of the bed, reaching across the space between them to make a tenuous connection. “I’m sorry,” Clint says.

Phil shakes his head. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

Clint’s expression holds nothing but tenderness and understanding. “We never talked about it, after you came back.”

Phil shrugs. “I didn’t want to push you.”

“You didn’t want me to yell at you,” Clint responds, lifting an eyebrow.

“No,” Phil says, looking down at Clint’s blanket where it was hanging off the edge of the bed. “I just didn’t want to do anything that would make you go back to not talking to me. When I came back, I swore… I swore to myself that I’d never make you go through that again. But if you’re going through it again and again when you’re asleep--”

“Hey. Hey, look at me.” Phil raises his eyes, and Clint stares into them intently. “It was just a bad dream. You were here. You didn’t leave me. It was just a bad dream.”

“Natasha says your worst nightmare is waking up to find out I’m still dead.”

Clint lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “Yeah. It is. But then I wake up, and you’re still here, so it’s okay.”

Phil frowns. “It’s really not.”

“It really is. Phil. Come here.” Clint tugs Phil up out of the chair to sit on the edge of the bed by his hip. He takes Phil’s hands and holds them to his chest, over his heart. “Phil. I love you.”

Phil turns his face away.

They don’t say things like this to each other.

“Phil. Look at me.”

He does. Clint is staring at him, deadly serious. “I love you. I’m not going to wake up one day and remember everything that happened and suddenly stop loving you.”

Phil feels the tears start to well up again. He’s never cried this much in his life. Clint pulls him in, and Phil tucks his face into Clint’s neck. “I’m sorry you were scared. Everything’s going to be all right.”

“You’re the one in the hospital bed. Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?”

“What can I say? I’m a rebel.”

 

**Sunday 4:01 p.m.**

“Hey scary ladies, I found Clint’s fucking green Jell-o, are they done with their deep and meaningful conver-- Hey! Hey, don’t--! Phil! Help!”

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for: Discussions of medical procedures, mentions of vomit, needles, and other pointy things, brief discussion of a past assault in which Clint is stabbed. In this fic, Clint suffers a ruptured bowel, gets emergency surgery, and develops an extremely high fever that endangers his life. Then he gets better. And demands Jell-o. Please note I am not a medical expert; while I did do research for this fic, and had my BFF the ER person check it, I make no guarantees as to medical accuracy. Please see a doctor if you experience extreme pain or an erection lasting more than four hours. 
> 
> This fic was inspired by an article I read in the New York Times a few months ago. A 97-year-old man died from a bowel obstruction. Since said obstruction was caused by a stab wound he received in 1959 his death, in 2015, was labeled a homicide. I'm guessing he would have lived to 110 if it weren't for the, you know, stabbing.
> 
> Find me on [tumblr!](http://jhscdood.tumblr.com)


End file.
